Pray for the Girl

by Joseph Souza

  “I really wish I could have met her.”

  “Maybe you can when you come back.”

  “If I come back.”

  “Oh, you will.”

  I need to change the subject. “Does Brandy play sports or have any hobbies?”

  “I used to coach her softball and basketball teams. Too bad she quit, because she was a good athlete. Complained that she didn’t like the competitive nature of team sports. Maybe I pushed her too hard when she was a kid.”

  “Did you?”

  “Only because I believed I was helping her.”

  “Every kid handles pressure differently.”

  “She’s a sweet, sensitive girl. It’s a shame her mother drove a wedge between us and created such bitterness.”

  “I suppose the only thing you can do is keep trying.”

  “I remember this one time when I was coaching her T-ball team. She was on second base and this boy hit the ball through the gap. I told her to run home, and she turned and started running toward center field. I caught up to her and asked her where she was going. You know what she said? She told me she was doing what I told her. She was running home.” He laughs at this memory, and yet I sense a deep sadness in him.

  “That’s too funny.”

  “That’s Brandy for you—before her mother messed her up.”

  Except for the Willie Nelson CD playing, we drive in silence to the bus station. He parks in the station’s lot and gets out to take my bags from the bed. Then he places them down next to my feet.

  “Are you sure you can’t stay longer?”

  “No. You were right all along. It’s far too dangerous for me to be here right now.”

  “You could stay with me,” he whispers. “My place isn’t the greatest, but it’s big enough for two people.”

  I laugh. “I’m an old-fashioned girl, Dalton. That’s not going to happen.”

  “I figured you might say that, and I respect you for it.”

  “Besides, you knew my stay here was only temporary.”

  “Seemed as if you’d been getting more comfortable in Fawn Grove and were thinking about staying longer.”

  “I admit it crossed my mind. Then this happened.”

  “So you’re going to return to New York and slave over a hot stove all day serving the beautiful people?”

  “Those beautiful people pay my bills. Besides, I’d never make it in this town as a chef.”

  “You could save that diner if you really wanted.”

  “That would mean time and money, two things I’m in short supply of right now.”

  “Can I visit you? I’ve got some vacation time coming and have always wanted to see New York.”

  “Let’s just see what happens here first.” I playfully punch him in the arm. “You’ve got a big job to do.”

  “I’ve not done much good in my life, but that’s going to change when I catch these assholes.”

  “I have faith in you, Dalton.”

  “I’ll miss you more than you’ll know, Lucy Abbott.”

  “I’m sure you will.”

  Dalton wraps one arm around my back and then, to my surprise, pulls me in to him. He stares deeply into my eyes, which momentarily causes my knees to weaken. His embrace feels warm and inviting, and I can feel his hot breath against the bridge of my nose. His hand is now pressed against the base of my spine. The other cups my cheek. He lowers his head until our lips brush lightly against each other. I badly want to push him away, but I realize that I’ve lost all resistance. Our moist tongues taste and explore each other. I close my eyes and lose myself in this sensual kiss delivered by my former adversary. My heart sizzles in my chest, and I suddenly feel as if I’m floating up and away. Time seems to stop, and I realize that I don’t want this kiss to end. But then Dalton’s lips slowly move away from mine. He releases his hand from my back and the other from my cheek. I remain frozen, fearful that if I open my eyes I’ll be forced to watch him leave.

  But I do open them. And I see him walking back to his pickup. My entire body feels weak and tingly. I shuffle backward in a daze until I reach the bus station. Dalton’s truck accelerates down the road before disappearing from sight. I stagger inside the station, set my bags down on the cold tile floor, and collapse breathlessly into one of the chairs.

  Never in my life have I been kissed like that.

  BOOK TWO

  21

  “JAXON?”

  That’s the first thing my father says to me when I show up at his doorstep. I’m standing in my best outfit, all made up, and nervous to see him. How long has it been since we’ve laid eyes on each other? He pauses to process everything, staring me up and down as if I’m a marble statue delivered to his door. His hair’s all gray, and he’s sporting a fuzzy, speckled beard that makes him look like a street person. His tattered clothes have holes in them and appear soiled. It looks to me as if he weighs no more than 120 pounds. Back in my youth he used to be muscled and weigh more than 180.

  “How did you recognize me?” I ask in amazement.

  “Knew the second I laid eyes on you that you was Jaxon.”

  “You’re the first person in town to recognize me.”

  “A father never forgets what his own kid looks like.”

  “What do you think of me now?” I say, spinning around in nervous anticipation.

  “Speechless. Had no idea you went this way, but you sure are pretty.”

  “Thanks, Dad. That’s sweet of you.”

  “Don’t just stand there, son. Come on inside,” he says. I’m so happy about this reception that I overlook him calling me son.

  I’d taken a cab back to Fawn Grove, instructing the driver to drop me off at my father’s house. No way I was going to step aside while these murdering cretins got away with threatening me. The meditation I’d done while trapped in that pit had convinced me that I had nothing to fear. If I lost my nerve now, I didn’t deserve to go on living. I’d been given a reprieve, and I was hell-bent on making good on it.

  My father’s house is more a cabin in the woods than a house. I gaze up at it and see that it’s in disrepair. Shingles lie broken, and the roof is partially covered over with a grimy blue tarp. Some of the windows are poorly insulated, and the bricks on the chimney are in serious need of repointing. I can only imagine what the inside looks like.

  “It’s been a long time, Dad,” I say.

  “Too long,” he says as I walk across the threshold. I set my bags down. “So you a gal, or is this some sort of practical joke you’re playing on your old man?”

  “It’s no joke. I go by the name Lucy now.”

  “I have to admit, this is a bit weird for me.”

  “I understand. You going to be able to handle it?”

  “Why the hell not? You’re my flesh and blood,” he says. “Besides, I’ve been dealing with a lot worse problems than finding out I have another daughter.”

  “I’m still the same person on the inside.”

  “You always had a good heart, as wild as you were as a kid.”

  “So it doesn’t matter to you that I’m now a woman?”

  “What I thought once mattered to me don’t seem so important no more.”

  “I just want you to accept me for who I am.”

  “I’ll certainly try my best.” He looks me over again. “Boy, you really turned into a beauty. Most of those trannies look nothing like you.”

  “Thanks, but tranny is probably not the nicest way to refer to us.”

  He sits down in his recliner. “Word is you got hurt over in the Middle East. Most people thought you died.”

  “Roadside IED. Both legs blown off below the knee.”

  “Damn! Guess you could say I been out of the loop for a while.”

  “You could have at least come and paid me a visit while I was recuperating,” I say, knowing full well that I would have refused to see him.

  “No excuse.” He shrugs. “Can’t take back the past.”

  “I returned home
in part because I want to forgive you, Dad, and because I want to move on in our relationship.”

  “I know I haven’t been the best husband and father to all of you.”

  “You should be apologizing to Mom, if she were still alive today.”

  “I regret what I put that poor woman through.”

  I sit across from him. Despite the drab exterior, the cabin is neat and tidy inside, and I’m surprised. A massive wood stove sits on the far end of the room. There’s a bookcase and a couple of old couches that have seen better days. The most striking and memorable objects are the weathered guitars from my youth, a vestige of his rock ’n’ roll days.

  “Still play?”

  “Every now and then,” he says. “Been a long time since I seen you. Not since you left for the military.”

  “A lot has changed in my life. I’m a very different person than when I left.”

  “Now there’s an understatement,” he says. “You were quite the hell-raiser as a kid. Always getting into trouble and giving your mother and I grief.”

  I smile. “Old habits die hard.”

  “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

  “Would you mind if I stayed for a while?”

  He grabs his chin and seems to mull it over. “It’s on short notice, but I don’t see why not. There’s only one bedroom, and I can’t sleep anywhere else because of my bad back.”

  “The couch will be fine.”

  “Then the couch is all yours.”

  I remove my jacket and rope my long hair off into a ponytail.

  “Them real?” he asks, making weighing motions beneath his chest.

  The forwardness of his question causes me to break out laughing. “Of course they’re real.”

  “Could have at least splurged for some bigger ones.”

  “Ewwwwww, Dad! That’s gross.”

  “Just saying, if you want to go the full monty, the big Ds are the way to go.”

  “I take hormones for that. They’re responsible for this gorgeous body, not surgery.”

  “Your entire body?”

  “Can we talk about something else?”

  “So how long you think you’ll be staying?”

  “Not sure yet,” I say. “Why? You need me to leave by a certain date?”

  “Nope. Just wondering.” He glances around as if confused about what to say next. “What was that name you go by now?”

  “Lucy.”

  “Lucy it is, then.”

  “I’m glad you’re taking this so well.”

  “Not really sure how I’m taking it, so I guess I’ll just roll with the punches.”

  “I appreciate that.”

  “I suppose you’re gonna wanna talk about stuff. Like why I left your mom.”

  “We’ll have time to catch up on all that later. Right now I have some things I need to do.”

  * * *

  The first thing I do after speaking with my father is snip off all my hair using a pair of scissors, making sure to cut as close to the scalp as possible. Although it pains me to get rid of my beautiful red hair, I know this is what’s needed. Since it’s obvious that my father doesn’t bother to shave, I grab one of my leg razors, and, with much sadness and regret, scrape off the remaining bits of dyed hair until my dome shines under the light. I’m fortunate that I’ve never been able to grow hair on my face, so that’s no problem. Then I snip off my naturally long eyelashes, which have been a key feature of mine since I was a kid.

  I put away all my dresses, stockings, and tapered jeans. My father lends me a pair of his overalls, at least until I can make a run to Goodwill and buy myself some used men’s clothes. Although it pains me greatly, I put away my makeup kit, lipstick, and fingernail polish, careful to cut my long nails until they’re rounded and more masculine. It feels like an act of self-mutilation, but it’s my only option at this point.

  I’m fortunate to have packed my spare set of prosthetics. They’re the legs I often used in my apartment, and they’re much more comfortable than the newer ones. They don’t chafe and irritate my stumps as much as the more advanced model. They were the first prosthetics made for me after the attack, and I used them routinely during those two arduous years rehabbing at Walter Reed. The problem with the old prosthetics is that they were manufactured to match my actual height of five foot three. It’s why I asked if they could make me some newer ones, legs that would make me a bit taller and more glamorous. Surprisingly, the VA granted my request, elevating me to a more respectable five foot six. Then, dressed in three-inch high heels, I transformed into a statuesque goddess.

  My father goes outside and rambles around the grounds. After searching around the cabin, I locate two tattered ace bandages in one of the lower cabinets. I take them back to his room and close the door behind me. Standing in front of the mirror, I remove my shirt and bra. I’m thrilled the way my body has developed after years of hormone therapy, and so doing this pains me more than anything else. I wrap the first bandage around my upper torso until it fits snugly. Then I repeat this with the second bandage until both are secure. I stand sideways in the mirror and check myself out. Not bad at all. I’d seen plenty of dudes with man boobs bigger than mine.

  Except this costume isn’t perfect. This is not who I am or who I want to be. Far from it. It’s a temporary disguise that I need in order to disassociate myself from my authentic self. A disfigurement that affects my dysmorphia and various body issues. My true self has always been wrapped up in Lucy Abbott even before I knew who she was. She’s lived inside me since birth, waiting for her own birthing. Jaxon Ford was a ghost from the past who has, for all intents and purposes, been dead to me. The poor boy died soon after that roadside bombing, after body and mind had been mutilated beyond repair. All that remained was hope: hope that I could reinvent and rebuild myself, and be the person I was always meant to be but never quite had the courage to pull off.

  It takes all afternoon to change into this new person. Oddly enough, it surprises me to discover that the Jaxon Ford from my youth looks nothing like this adult version. Thank God! Those years working as a combat medic and then recuperating in Walter Reed irrevocably changed me. I’m now the avuncular version of my old self: bald, crippled, and world weary without the insult of sarcasm. Without makeup to hide all the blemishes, I in no way resemble the Lucy Abbott who gets wolf whistles on the street. I stare at my bare earlobes. Now that will have to be rectified. A pair of black-framed glasses and some heavy metal skull earrings will complete my transformation. And a black concert T-shirt, preferably something heavy metal. This will be my new look in Fawn Grove until these murders are solved. I’ll observe and keep my eye on things without fear of detection. Then, once everything goes back to normal, I’ll return to being Lucy.

  Now I have to think about how I’ll alter my voice. I’ve always possessed a perfectly neutral vocal range, which made it easy for me when it came time to speak like a woman. I’d mastered my feminine pitch, and can enunciate with just the right tone. But now I have to swing back the other way. It will take time and lots of work. Smoking cigarettes will help my voice grow raspier and low. I’ll gargle with whiskey each day and shout into the dense woods until my voice changes. Then I’ll practice speaking until my new voice becomes unrecognizable from Lucy’s.

  I go outside and find my father.

  “Well I’ll be damned,” he says. “Where’d that beautiful gal go?”

  “I’m still that beautiful girl.”

  “I’m confused. Mind telling me the reason for all this?”

  “I’m going undercover in order to learn a few things in town. I’ll explain it to you later.”

  “Thought you already were undercover.”

  “That wasn’t a cover, Dad. Lucy is the real me.”

  “I’m trying to understand everything, I really am, but it’s hard.”

  “I know all this is confusing to you, but please bear with me.”

  “If you say,” he says as he slips on some soiled gloves
. “While you’re living here with me, would you mind giving me a hand?”

  “Sure.” We then proceed to cut wood and pull weeds for the next two hours.

  I spend the next few days helping my father around the house: painting, replacing roof shingles, cleaning up the yard, and painting the inside of the house. We don’t really talk about anything meaningful, which is fine by me. Before dinner one evening, we settle on the couch with cups of tea. A thick joint sits on the coffee table between us, waiting for my father to light it. Most nights he puts classical music on the stereo before rolling a joint. The choice of music surprises me, since my father had always been a hard-core rock ’n’ roll kind of guy. Thirty minutes pass in silence before he clears his throats and looks at me.

  “You still haven’t told me why you’re doing all this.”

  “Am I bothering you?”

  “Not at all. I’m enjoying having you around and keeping me company.”

  “I’ll help you out with all the household chores while I’m here.”

  “I’m still wondering why you came back to this godforsaken town after all those years away. If I remember correctly, you couldn’t wait to get out of here.”

  “If you think this town’s so bad, why are you still here?”

  “It’s too late for me to leave. I was born and raised in Fawn Grove. Now I’m an old man with no future, just a sorry past.”

  “I came home because I was suffering from PTSD and needed a break from the city. Wendy agreed to take me in. When I found out about these murders, I just couldn’t go back home until I found out who committed them.”

  “Why do you care?”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “Why don’t you just go back to New York and be the girl you’ve always wanted to be?”

  “In due time.”

  “What’s the holdup?”

  I laugh. “You trying to get rid of me, Dad?”

  “Hell, no. You do good work, and good workers are hard to come by.” He stares at me in an odd manner. “You gone all the way?”

  “Excuse me?”

  He strokes his scruffy beard and then makes a chopping motion with his hand. “Excuse my French, but I’m talking about downstairs. The full transition to becoming a gal.”